Elinor's Wedding
by darkershade
Summary: One-shot. Colonel Christopher Brandon has had too much to drink at the wedding breakfast. So has Miss Marianne Dashwood. Companion to "Mindful of the Feelings of Others," and a prequel to "Strange Fits of Passion" and "A Little Fall of Rain," although it can stand alone.


Mood Music: "Sometime Around Midnight," by Airborne Toxic Event

It was a cold evening in December-indeed, the night before, a blanket of snow had descended over Delaford, and the eaves of the mansion, the roofs of the tenant farmhouses, and the steeple of the church all glistened with it, fresh and white, in the candlelight that the house's large picture windows threw on the outside world. Brandon wore his warmest coat as he stood in the portico of his house, leaning heavily against a column with a glass of wine in his hand and surveying the scene.

Behind him, music sounded from the orchestra he had hired, playing to entertain the few remaining guests. His gift to Elinor and Edward (in addition to the refurbishments he had funded for the parsonage) was to host their wedding, and he had tried to be a gracious host, and to throw a party that would honor how dearly he cared for them both. With that in mind, though the wedding itself had seemed small, the guests from the wedding breakfast had filled his entire house, it seemed, with people from everywhere-Edward's family (the ones who deigned to come, at least), Elinor's extended family (even John and Fanny, whom Brandon tried to avoid as much as possible), and several of their friends from the neighborhood of Delaford. Everyone was stuffed full of good food. Punch and champagne flowed freely. Brandon, though he himself did not like large parties as a rule, at least knew how to be a gracious host for one when the occasion arose.

He couldn't say he wasn't enjoying himself, for he was surrounded by the dearest of people and celebrating the union of two of their number; however, he needed a little fresh air and time away from the heady sensations produced by Marianne Dashwood-whose very entrance into a room was still enough to nearly stop his heart. He had danced two dances with her this evening, and though they were perfectly chaste and polite, it was enough to make him dizzy with want.

Seeing her when she had stepped out of the carriage two weeks ago, for the first time in some months, had nearly undone all of the self-reflection and calming meditation Brandon had engaged in in preparation for her arrival. She had gained back all the weight she had lost during her illness, and the softness had returned to her sweet face and long limbs. Her eyes shone brightly as he handed her out of the carriage, and she had smiled up at him, and immediately began to ask about any books in which she might be interested. In short, she had kept all her old vibrancy, with none of the cruel edge it had once had when Willoughby acted as an influence on her. And she was so, so very beautiful.

Those first few days were all abustle with planning and preparations for the wedding. But the fourth day of the Dashwoods' arrival, they had all paid a visit to Eliza and the baby, Charity, at her cottage. Brandon had been nervous at first that Marianne would not take well to Eliza, knowing that the slightly younger woman had a connexion to Willoughby through her affair and her child, and that Marianne was so shy now about anything that might put her own virtue into question; but nothing could be farther from the truth. Both women were open and warm-hearted by nature, and absconded together in friendship to talk of the baby and of their shared interests. Marianne had come away from their first meeting with a copy of _The Sorrows of Young Werther_ , alluding to the fact that "Colonel Brandon didn't seem to think it was appropriate reading material for young ladies," and laughing. Eliza had taken a moment in private to say to Colonel Brandon, when he had looked to her inquisitively after her private conference with Marianne: "Marry her, Colonel." At this, he had reddened and given her a painful look. He would like to. It wasn't his wishes that got in the way, after all.

The most surprising development of the meeting between the Dashwoods and the Williamses was the almost instantaneous friendship that was struck, not between Eliza and Marianne, but between Eliza and Margaret. The young woman (for such was she now, at nearly fourteen) was introduced by Brandon as "Captain Margaret," and turned red at the title. Eliza had expressed how interesting it must be to be a ship's captain, and the two of them carried on, giggling until they were red in the face about made-up stories, and places they'd both like to visit, and real adventures Brandon had once told Eliza about. Their energy was contagious, and Brandon was happy to see Eliza so enlivened-more than she had been since before Charity was born, for certain.

Eliza had been at the wedding, at Reverend Ferrars' particular request, too. But now was approaching the time for quiet. Most of the guests, including Eliza, had departed, Elinor and Edward-nervous and excited all at once-had been bustled into a carriage for the village inn, where they would spend their first night, and from there travel to their honeymoon destination in Lyme. The only people who remained were those from Barton-the Middletons, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Dashwood, Miss Margaret, and the new Miss Dashwood.

As the noise of the orchestra stopped and Brandon surmised that they were ready to clear off, Brandon came back inside, drinking the last of his wine and feeling the pleasant sensation as it coursed through him. He may pay for all he had consumed this evening, he thought as he floated along the carpets, but tonight he would allow himself to be light-headed and happy for the newlywed couple. He told the servants not to worry about clearing up tonight, that they should find all the mess waiting until the morning, and that they should go up to bed. And he walked on slightly wobbly legs to the library to retrieve his reading spectacles, which he then intended to take straight to bed himself. But the library was already occupied.

 _She_ was there, in _his_ favorite chair, weeping inconsolably into the leather cover of a book, a bottle of wine cradled in her other arm. She looked up at him, tried to stop her crying, but only managed to build up a really impressive wail, and then threw her head into her arms again to sob.

"Miss Mari-er, Miss Dashwood, are you-are you quite alright?" he slurred gently, not certain if she was a figment of his imagination, his head was so fuzzy.

"Colonel Brandon, this book is terrible!" she tossed it across the room, where it landed at his feet. He squinted, making the title out through his haze. _Werther_. Of course. "Why did you let me read it?"

He picked it up, dusted it off, and made a mental note to apologize to Eliza for the pages that had crumpled when it landed. "If you remember correctly, mademoiselle, I did not encourage you to read it. I specifi-specifi-" his tongue was tied up. "I told you it was a bad idea."

"You cannot tell me not to read something, ever, for I shall just want to read it more! Stupid, stupid Colonel!" she wept bitterly into the armrest.

"Why, pray tell, were you reading a book in the middle of a wedding feast?"

"Why were you coming to the library in the middle of a wedding feast? Turnabout is fair play, sir."

"Touche." Brandon came and knelt at her feet. He took the bottle gently away from her. "How many glasses of wine have you consumed?" he asked gingerly.

"Thousands. Who cares? My life is over."

"Whatever do you mean?" Something in him realized that she probably did not want him there for this revelation, but something bigger knew that he was incapable of leaving just now.

"I am just like Werther! I shall die alone, for no one shall want me ever again! Elinor is so happy, and I am happy for her, but I will never have a wedding, with dancing, and wine, and...and…"

Brandon snorted. "Of course you shall marry, Miss Marianne. Why would you think that no one would marry you?"

She looked at him conspiratorially. Then she got out of the chair and sunk down on the floor to be closer to his face. She crooked her finger at him so that he would lean in closer. He did. "I am not pure anymore, Colonel."

His heart stopped. "Did Willoughby-" he looked at her in horror.

"Yes," she wept, burying her face in his waistcoat and sobbing. When she came up for air, she looked into his eyes and said mournfully, "He did. He kissed me!"

"K-kissed you? I thought-" Well, he had thought she meant something else. He took a swig from the still-half-full wine bottle he had taken from her.

"I know it was wrong, Colonel, but at the time I did not care. But now I am a damaged woman! It may not be so bad if I were particularly wealthy or connected, but as it stands…" she looked up at him pitifully, eased the bottle out of his hands, and took another drink herself. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Do you think it matters if someone were kissed once? Before they got married?"

"Miss Mari-dammit. Miss Dashwood. Pardon my swearing. Personally, I don't think it matters. You know that, for most men, they have-that is, we have-been kissed. And other things. It is only women that are expected to be-"

"Pure and perfect! I know! It is so stupid! Have you read Miss Wollstonecraft?"

"Of course I have. She's over there somewhere." He gestured shakily at his bookshelves. "And I agree. It is stupid. You should be able to act according to your feelings, as we do, and be equal to us."

She looked delighted that he agreed with her, and said brightly, "Oh, Colonel! How refreshing! I thought an old stodgy army man like you would be much more traditional about things." His nostrils flared at the unconscious way she insulted him, but he stayed by her, and drank more wine. "But all the same, I cannot help but feel… that _he_ would have loved me more if I were more womanly, or more feminine or something…or if I were particularly beautiful."

At this, Brandon was taken aback, and couldn't help himself. He chortled, and spat out the small sip of wine he had just taken. The chortle turned into a fully-fledged guffaw, and when he emerged from his laughing fit, Marianne was looking at him as if he had sprouted extra ears.

"Whatever is funny?"

"It's just," he said through tears of mirth, "that you think you aren't beautiful."

She furrowed her brows at him. "So?"

" _So_ , it's an objective fact. Have you seen yourself? Have you peered into a looking glass lately?" _Dangerous ground, Brandon_ , the angel on his shoulder told him. _You're very close to confessing something_.

"Colonel Brandon, you don't know anything. When was the last time you even made judgments about a woman's beauty? Elinor is the type everyone wants these days, and Miss Grey. I am much too tall and too stout."

"I don't know about what people want _these_ days. But as you have so kindly pointed out, I am an old stodgy army man. I happen to think that-"

"Oh, I know that was cruel of me. I am sorry I said that."

"Said what?"

"I suppose you're not so old."

"Thank you," he replied tersely. He sipped from the bottle, then offered it to her. She took it, drank. "Wait-Miss Ma-Dashwood. Whenever did you learn German well enough to read Goethe?"

"I've been borrowing from Sir John at Barton. He had some books."

"Why?"

"Because," she leaned in, as if it were a great secret, and hiccuped once before answering, "I wanted to impress you."

"Me?"

"Yes. You're so...so...formidable. I didn't want you to think I was a total idiot, mooning over boys." She gestured to herself. "I guess that ship has sailed now!" And suddenly, she began weeping afresh, into his chest again, and he could smell her fragrant locks, and the shred of logical thought that remained to him beneath the haze of wine wasn't powerful enough to stop him from leaning down, touching the tip of his nose to the part in her hair, and inhaling her scent deeply. _Please don't let her notice_. Meanwhile, _another_ part of him was noticing her, and the fact that in her weeping, her lips were pressed into his shirt collar, and her hands were tugging at his waistcoat, and this part of him, so often ignored, thought, _this is_ very _much like something else I'd like to be doing with her_.

"I don't think you're an idiot, but…" _Dammit, I am Colonel Christopher Brandon of the British East India Company. Where is my self control?_ He shook off the alcohol's influence, and said, "It is perhaps best if you went to bed, Miss Ma-oh, God damn it. Miss Dashwood."

She nodded, and looked up at him with tear-filled big green eyes, and moved to stand up. She pressed her hands into his shoulders to ground herself, and he used his hands to help her, placing them on her waist-he hoped unassumingly-and she was up, but he watched her as she teetered on her way to the door, catching herself on the chair and laughing. "Colonel Brandon, I do believe I am drunk."

He rolled his eyes. "You can't make it up the stairs by yourself. Come. I'll help you." He himself struggled to his feet, disoriented. And he took her arm, and led her to the door. When he peeked outside, though, Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Dashwood could be heard from the parlor, loudly discussing the events of the day, and he stopped. "We can't go out that way."

"Whyever not?"

"We shall be seen."

She giggled. "By whom?"

"Sir John and Lady Middleton, and your mother, and Mrs. Jennings." The four of them were probably as drunk as he was, from the sound of their voices, although not quite as far gone as Marianne, who had transitioned a hundred and eighty degrees away from her recent bout of tears and was now giggling so hard she was vibrating.

"How do we get out of here, then?"

"Luckily, this is my house. And I know all of its secrets." He raised an eyebrow at her, and then led her by the arm to the library's window. He shoved it open, letting in a blast of freezing night air. "Come with me." And he climbed outside, stepping delicately over a shrubbery and onto the snowy front lawn. His leather boots sunk into the snow, and he looked back at Marianne's feet, which were covered with delicate slippers, not equipped for winter weather. Thoughtlessly he slipped an arm around her back and another under her legs, cradling her, and carried her over the window sill. As she realized what was happening, she shrieked in glee. He started walking across the lawn before she had time to sputter out a protest.

"Put me down!" she giggled.

"I can't. You'll ruin your shoes."

"Colonel! Your rheumatism! Should you be carrying me? Oh, God, you're so much stronger than I-"

"Shhh-you'll wake the whole neighbourhood!" He set her down when they had reached the back of the house, where a stone walkway had been cleared off which led to Brandon's destination.

The staircase leading up to the observatory was a delicate iron helix. Brandon encouraged Marianne to walk before him up it so she wouldn't plummet, and he practically salivated at the sight of her hips swaying in front of his eyes. _You are six and thirty. Get a hold of yourself, man_. Finally they reached the top, and Brandon felt along the moulding outside of the door for a key he had laid there, oh, twenty years ago, when he and Eliza used to come up here in secret in the dead of night and look at the stars. He unlocked the door. A coppery telescope glistened in the moonlight.

"I didn't know this was here!" Marianne exclaimed. "We had one at Norland! My father used to teach us about the stars and planets."

"I bet Margaret misses it."

"Oh, very much."

"Well, she may come and use it whenever she likes. You may, as well."

She smiled at him slowly, and it was a different smile from any she had shown him before. There was something inquisitive in her smile, and beneath her usual glimmer, something wild in her eyes. "You're very kind, Colonel." He cleared his throat and marched them through the door to the house's interior. From there, they made their way relatively silently down a staircase, around a corner, through a long corridor, and finally to the door to Marianne's chamber, which adjoined her mother's. No sign of Mrs. Dashwood yet upstairs. They had made it safely.

It was now time to hand her off to the gentle care of the Sandman, and traipse back to his own rooms at the far end of the house. He opened the door for her, and pushed her gently past him into the room. She tugged his coat and pulled him in with her before closing the door behind him. He almost lost his balance, and then realized with a jolt of sobriety as he steadied himself against the doorknob, where he was, and with whom.

"Miss Dashwood, do you require my assistance with something?" he croaked.

"I don't like it when you call me Miss Dashwood," she levelled at him roughly, her eyes flashing, thrusting a finger into his chest. "Miss Dashwood was my sister. I don't think I'll ever get used to it. Please call me Miss Marianne."

"Very well. Miss Marianne," he replied.

She shivered. "Oh, that is better. Do you know, I always liked the way you said my Christian name. It sounds as if you're reading a poem. Say it again, please."

She really was very close to him. She had him sort of pinned to the door. He could escape her if he wanted to, for he was much stronger than she was. But he didn't want to. "Miss Marianne." It came out low and husky, like a growl.

"Colonel Brandon." She gave him that smile again, and he suddenly realized that it was a smile she had once given to someone else. He gulped. His whole body responded to her when her nostrils flared, and her eyelids fluttered. He bit back an anguished moan.

It happened so fast he almost couldn't be sure it wasn't his idea, but slow enough that each moment contained within itself a tiny eternity. and he perceived that it was, indeed, she who moved forward first. A chin tilted up. Fingertips resting on a stomach. Lips parted, welcoming. Hers, all hers. Still he didn't move forward. His hands hung at his sides. He did nothing but stand and wait for her. Finally, calves raised on tiptoes, and their lips joined together.

There were no words in Brandon's head. Nothing but sheer white-hot feeling. What started as an almost imperceptible touch became deeper, and Brandon had been the one, he would later remember, to cause the intensification. He raised his hands to cradle her elbows, bent his head down to catch her mouth more fully with his own, and pulled her to him. _What. The. Hell. Are. You. Doing_. said the angel on his shoulder, but then Marianne opened her mouth and touched her tongue to his, and the angel was stampeded over by a cavalcade of devils giving him all manner of other advice. _My God, she is good at this_. He took her by the back of the head, threading fingers through her fine curls, softer than silk (better than he had suspected), and maneuvered her so that it was now her back against the door, her body that was pinned by his. He bit down teasingly on her bottom lip before licking the spot where his teeth had grazed, and she gasped and gripped his waist. The low sound she made in the bottom of her throat could have sustained him through a year of famine. She tasted like wine, and he had never been more thirsty.

Slowly, they pulled apart. Marianne, breathing erratic, looked up at him, lips plump from exertion and eyes not even bothering to veil her desire. She whispered to him, "You're much better at that than Willoughby."

The rush of adrenaline that coursed through him as he looked at her, flushed and panting, took away his ability to reason through anything. _Well, in for a penny_ , he thought. He grinned at her wolfishly, then pressed her into the door with his body once more and took her mouth with his. This time it was a rough kiss, hot and needy, and she kissed him back like she needed him too. She dug her fingers into his back, pulling him in closer, and then started pushing at him, leading him with her legs backwards towards the bed. They engaged in a dance of sorts at her lead, neither of their mouths willing to break away from one another, but when she nudged them both onto the bed Brandon rolled over, balancing himself on his elbows above her, and took control once again. He broke away from her, and she whimpered. Then he began to kiss her everywhere else, touching his lips softly to her cheek, her forehead, and then lower, finding the irresistibly soft places above her collarbone, at the neckline of her low-cut ball gown, the place where her earlobes joined with her neck, the hollow of her throat, in no particular order, just memorizing with his mouth all the beautiful contours by which, in another, lesser life, he had been mesmerized time and time again. Each time he looked up at her face it was in raptures. She murmured unintelligible things, occasionally moaning outright.

It was only when her hands began to wander in their inexperienced, halting way, that Brandon came to his senses. Her explorations took her down below his waist to the sensitive place where his hipbone met the softer flesh of his pelvis, and even though she was impeded by layers of clothing he felt his desire run through him so strongly that it was painful. He jumped up, untangled himself from her, and looked around him in a panic. His heart was beating so fast he thought he might pass out, and the room spun around him. He struggled to focus on her, the reality of her, lying on the bed where he had left her.

"Oh, God, Miss Dashwood, what have I done?"

She moaned at the loss of his weight from atop her, and sat up on her elbows to look at him and pout. "Are you going away now?"

"Miss Dashwood-"

"I suppose I should tell you goodnight, then. Thank you for a lovely evening," she pronounced carefully, struggling over each syllable. "I hope you will visit again soon." She smiled. And then she curled up in a little ball, ball gown and shoes still on, and hugged a pillow to her, and within a few seconds she was asleep.

Head in his hands, he sat on the bed, unable to move or do anything for a few minutes until he had processed the events of the past few minutes. His desire died down to its usual level, and the terror of finding himself endangering this woman (whom he knew, through his mental fog, only kissed him because of the wine she had drunk) made him at least functionally sober. He glanced at her. She looked so peaceful as she snuggled up with the pillow, holding it as she might hold a lover in sleep-as she would never hold him, he knew. Frustrated and angry with himself, almost angrier than he had ever been, he got up and made for the door. Then he looked back at her.

He slowly walked over to the basin and poured her a glass of water. Then he nudged her awake. "Miss Dashwood? You must drink this." She blinked open her eyes and stared at him quizzically.

"Colonel Brandon, what are you doing here?"

"Drink." She did as she was told. Then she sank back into her pillows and drifted off once again. He saw a thick quilt folded up at the foot of her bed. He unfolded it and, after gently removing her shoes and placing them on the floor-he noticed how her toes wiggled in her stockings as he did so, and refrained from placing a kiss on each toe-he covered her with the blanket and took his leave of her.

He himself didn't sleep. He relived the evening over and over in his head, lying back on his own pillows, until time and exhaustion made him sober. A wave of stomachache came over him, causing him to get up out of bed near dawn, and he spent some time heaving out the alcoholic cause of his lapse of judgment. He then dressed for the day, squirrelled away with a bun from the pantry, and took it to his study, where he didn't emerge all morning. He simply sat, stoking the fire he had started, and worrying.

Finally (near noon), John burst in. "Brandon!" he said. The slightly older man looked the worse for wear just as Brandon knew he himself did, having drunk his fill yesterday during the festivities. "Where have you been? We're all ready for luncheon."

"John...I've done something...bad."

John came in and closed the door. "What is it, man?"

"I kissed her."

John looked at him as if he were hysterical. "Marianne Dashwood?"

Brandon nodded.

"How? When? Are you-are you engaged?"

"She was drunk. I took her to her rooms. It all happened so fast-"

"She's not said anything about it this morning!"

"Wait-you mean-she's awake? She's up?" Brandon's heart started beating faster.

"She's been up for at least two hours, complaining of a headache, and she mentioned something about not being able to remember how she got to bed."

Brandon slumped over in his chair and nearly wept. "She doesn't remember! Thank God!" John sat opposite him. "You will say nothing of this, John, I trust."

"Of course not, old friend. But certainly-certainly, it is not as bad as all that."

Brandon looked at him, his eyes full of fire. "If she remembers how she kissed me, she'll never forgive herself. Or me."

"So she kissed you, or you kissed her?"

"What does it matter?"

"Oh, I think it matters a great deal."

"John, try not to think about it. And let's go eat."

Sure enough, there was no recognition in her face that afternoon as they ate, or as they played cards; everyone went to bed early that night, and no one was any the wiser. Just before bed, Marianne gave him back the copy of _Werther_ she had borrowed, telling him she had liked it very much and to tell Eliza she appreciated the loan. No hint of their conversation from the previous night seemed to cross her mind.

The following day, the Barton party was packed away into their carriage and sent off, and Christopher Brandon had nothing but his memories-memories that angered him, when he remembered his indiscretion, and memories that aroused him, when he remembered the way her body's curves had fit against him and the way her mouth had softly teased him into a state of incapacitation.

He was just as wanton, and wicked, and selfish as Willoughby had been, he told himself again and again. He had taken advantage of a young woman whose will was weakened by drink and by blind desire. He must never let anything of this sort happen again.


End file.
